


Being Brave

by Joelcoxriley



Category: Original Work
Genre: Awkward Romance, Brave, Child Death, Childhood Trauma, Cousin Incest, Crisis of Faith, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eventual Romance, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Having Faith, Healing, Hope, Hope and Healing from Trauma, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Incest, Intimacy, Learning to Love Self, Loss of Faith, Mental Health Issues, Middle Ages, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Rape Recovery, References to Depression, Slow Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, mother's grief, overcoming depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29514078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joelcoxriley/pseuds/Joelcoxriley
Summary: Ikaara's whole world was four walls and a bed for almost a decade. Life outside her brothel may as well have never existed. Upon gaining her freedom from her Brothel Mother, Ikaara finds herself in a frightening world. Her normal was the hell of others. Walking out-into the sun, the sea of people whose lives were not dictated by another-Ikaara discovers she needs to learn to be brave in an all new hell.  Her captivity is their damnation.  Their freedom is hers.Ikaara never thought free will would be so scary.The first step into the sun was just the start of her recovery from her inner demons, and of the darker whispers in her mind.It was the first step of many.
Kudos: 1





	Being Brave

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I decided to delve into this character more to help explore her struggles of being brave. I thought it would be fun (and probably depressing, but I love angst). Rated Mature.
> 
> Warning: Hinted/Vague sexual and physical abuse and drug use, self harm.
> 
> This work will also deal with a main character who struggles with various mental health issues (depression and suicidal ideation, PTSD related trauma due to abuse, ect.). This work is meant to be gritty, and is focused upon a woman who's at the lowest point of her life with no purpose, support system, or viable skills for outside of a brothel setting. If the work bothers you, or upsets you, please do not read for your own benefit.
> 
> And yes, the wording is meant to be choppy/a bit fragmented at times. :) Ikaara doesn't exactly have a good mental state.
> 
> Setting takes place in 1200-1300s, roughly.

Her eyes diverted from the man, and was rewarded with a viscous slap of a calloused hand, hard knuckles bashing and threatening to to create a bruise upon her temple.

White lights swirled at the edges, and rough fingers gripped her jaw.

" _Why the fuck are you looking away?! Never look away from me!_ " The deep voice was harsh and shrill with an enraged scream, her eyes wide and white with terror.

Her eyes refocused, and a choking, strangled gag came from her throat as heated liquid spilled into her throat, horrid and foul. Her throat and face flushed, muscles bobbing and spasming as she heaved and tried to cease the torrent of urine from spilling down her throat. Her struggled to escape and break free, arms beating against the man, attempting to push herself off. She gagged and choked, gargled coughs causing a spray of saliva and urine to spritz passed her lips flush against his pelvis.

She was fighting him, attempting to escape the humiliating violation.

She felt it burn her lungs and churn and lurch her stomach.

The urge to vomit welled within her throat, and hot tears streamed down her face.

Another strike to the face, followed by a scream.

" _Why are you crying?! Stop fucking crying! Stop fucking crying and enjoy it, you fucking whore!_ "

* * *

She lay upon her stomach, wrists tied to the head of the bed posts, the strained frays of the rough rope creating brush burns from her struggles. Saliva welled within her mouth and ran down her chin from being gagged, make up smeared from old tears.

She had no idea how long she lay there.

She lost track of how many men walked and out of the room.

She didn't want to think of how many.

The creak of the old door opened and closed, heavy footfalls resounding upon the wood floor.

They stopped at the edge of the bed, and the clunk of boots and soft thud of clothes hit the floor.

The bed creaked in protest, and the sound of something metallic clinking hit her ears.

Her terror grew, and she attempted to crane her neck to see whatever it was.

Her hair was suddenly pulled, a muffled shriek coming from her, forcing her head back and her neck to bend. Her roots screamed, and a cool, leather strap was pressed flush against her neck.

It constricted with such force she couldn't breathe.

Raw panic and mortality set in, and she struggled and writhed haplessly.

It was not long until darkness took her.

* * *

She was unsure how she survived.

The bruises upon her wrists and throat were evidence of her survival enough-and not some horrid dream.

The horror was beyond terrifying. It was palpable, and seared into her mind.

But not all the clients were cruel.

Some were nice.

Some cared.

A young man hugged her.

Hugged.

It caused a lurch in her stomach, a type of girlish giddiness and happiness.

A brief moment of respite and security-if however disillusioned-against the backdrop of despair.

A brief flicker of hope, and light.

The Hugging Man said he would return.

Thus, she waited, eagerly, and vigorously, dreaming of foolish girl's dreams.

Like a lonely dog awaiting the return of its master, she would look out the window, and wait.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks turned into months.

Months turned into years.

The young man never returned.

* * *

Her menstrual cycle was late.

No.

No.

No.

She could not be with child.

She would not have a child from monsters.

She would not have a child that wasn't conceived in love.

Never.

* * *

The examination was not pleasant, and the extraction was painful-a cold metal thing scraping around her womb.

She wasn't sure if the bleeding afterwards was from injury, or if it was what was left of the child.

She was allowed to take a week off to rest.

It made her realize how tiny her world was.

Her world was the size of a bedroom, and anything else outside may as well have not even existed.

* * *

Sex was painful ever since the removal, and she often bled afterwards.

When she requested time off to rest and recover, she was denied.

The Madame just said she had other holes.

* * *

When she was not working, she was thinking. And even during work, she was thinking.

In a way, she was glad the clients generally did not return.

It stopped the dreams and hopes before it even began.

The hope of having a future with someone. A dream of having a family, and being married.

She saw a lot of men with wedding bands. Some twisted them off before hand, others not.

They were pretty, but they also meant something.

A life outside these walls.

She was glad her clients stopped her from forming attachments.

Because attachments led to expectations.

And expectations led to dreams.

And dreams led to hope.

And hope led to a future.

It hurt less when being used like an object.

Because that's what she was.

A thing that people could find pretty, and utilize, but never attach to and love.

It was better this way.

Because hoping hurt too much.

* * *

Physical examinations were mandatory, for many reasons.

They were to check for health, and to check for viability.

Protection was mandatory, but even then, pregnancy happened.

Some chose to keep their children.

Others not.

The ones that did, had their babes taken away the very day they were born.

Taken away from the city, and out into the country.

The children raised like cattle to a farm, under the watchful gaze of a former woman of ill repute.

She would rather abort.

Abortion was a mercy.

The children would just be raised to come back here one day.

Then they would be put to work.

* * *

She was standing.

Then she fell, and everything went black.

She woke minutes later, viscous saliva so thick it formed a white film of slime.

A seizure, they said it was.

She didn't know what a seizure was.

All she knew, was that they were more generous in giving her her next fix.

And that was all she cared about.

* * *

She prided herself on being pretty.

Her looks were all she had.

Her looks beckoned clients.

Clients brought coin.

Coin brought her next fix.

But only if she made enough.

And only if her physical examinations and health ailments did not take much of her coin.

When they did, she worked harder.

And when that wasn't enough, she worked even more.

She worked so much, she even dreamt of working.

She hated waking up tired from work, only to get up and work.

* * *

She exercised a lot.

She exercised all day, really.

Smiling was her most common exercise regimen.

It was also the most strenuous.

Frowning was so much easier.

Smiling too much made her face tired.

* * *

Sometimes she felt numb.

It was a slow, consuming feeling.

Sometimes she couldn't tell reality from dream.

At times, dreams felt like reality, and reality felt like dreams.

It didn't hurt to check which was which.

It was just skin.

Blood didn't bleed the same way in dreams.

* * *

Getting men was easy.

It was telling the truth that was the hard part.

Because lying was easy.

Men liked hearing lies more than truth.

That they were handsome.

That they were large.

That they were good.

Lying was easy.

She always had to think too much when telling the truth.

She'd rather not think.

She'd rather lie instead.

* * *

Wake up.

Do hair.

Do make up.

Wear good clothes.

Smile.

Work.

Work.

Work.

Get paid.

Get fix.

Forget.

Remember.

Take bath.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Stare at wall.

Go to bed.

Stare at ceiling.

Did that crack get bigger from last night?

* * *

She didn't make enough again.

She didn't get her fix.

So she took someone else's.

She didn't know what happened to the other girl.

She just knew the girl was out for three weeks for injuries.

* * *

Civil War?

Rome was under siege?

She didn't know what that meant.

She didn't care.

What was happening out there wasn't going to get her paid.

Inside was.

It was all that mattered.

She just wished it didn't make her feel stupid.

At least she could pretend to know what her clients sometimes prattled on about.

* * *

She knew what she would do tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

It was tiring.

Sometimes she felt so hollow staring into the eyes of tomorrow.

* * *

Freedom.

A word she did not know until she stepped out of that hell, and into the light.

The wind was too cold, and the sun was too bright.

Everyone buzzing and moving.

Their movements were too swift.

Their voices were too loud.

What were they doing?

Where were they going?

How did they know?

Freedom.

Ikaara thought she would like it.

Like the outside.

She didn't.

It was chaos.

How did everyone know what to do?

Where to go?

What to say?

Who was telling them?

Ordering them?

Was this what freedom was?

Free will?

Ikaara didn't like it.

It was scary.

Foreign.

Threatening.

For the first time, she wanted to go back to the safety of her room.

At least within those walls, it was something familiar.

Something less scary than the chaos called freedom.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and stay safe! I'm not sure when I'll update, but the second chapter will more than likely delve into her past and all that boring stuff.


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